


Catching Sparks At Their Finest

by ohyoudork



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyoudork/pseuds/ohyoudork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Open mic AU || Jehan is an unknown but promising musician, and Feuilly is a reporter at a local newspaper who happens to be in the Musain bar where Jehan is playing one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Sparks At Their Finest

Sitting near the far corner of the bar, Feuilly took a sip of his beer while he flipped the pages in his notebook, going over the incredibly dry late-night interview he’d just spent more than an hour conducting. His shorthand was nearly illegible even to him, and he made notes on the side, explaining his abbreviations, before he forgot what they meant.

The bar was pretty empty, which was to be expected for a Thursday night, but there was a small crowd gathered near the stage across the room from where the bar was. Feuilly craned his neck but couldn’t see anyone even near the stage. Some kind of generic early 2000s rock was playing throughout, and the bar only had live music on the weekends normally.

Feuilly put his pen down to hold his place in his notes and flagged down his friend Grantaire, who was bartending.

“What’s the deal over there?” Feuilly asked, nodding toward the group who were all talking amongst themselves like they knew each other.

“Oh, the owner agreed to let some guy play tonight,” Grantaire replied, leaning his arms on the counter as he rolled his eyes. “Apparently he’s got a local following and people are buzzing about him, and the owner has these grand ideas about making the bar ‘more accessible’ to patrons.”

“If he wants that, maybe he should invest in some more alcohol choices and give the place a coat of paint,” Feuilly said with a laugh, even though he wasn’t joking.

“I know, right?” Grantaire chuckled and ran his fingers through his dark, messy hair. “But anything that gets a few more heads in here is a good thing.”

Grantaire pointed to Feuilly’s nearly empty glass as a means of asking if he wanted another. Feuilly shook his head and then nodded, deciding why the hell not. He deserved it after the evening he’d had; he wasn’t paid enough as a lowly reporter to deal with the amount of condescension he had to put up with. Being the newest at the paper, he was consistently assigned the most boring and tedious of stories, everything ranging from budget hearings to ribbon-cuttings. He knew he’d have to work his way up, that he had to pay his dues, but he hadn’t put himself through school and worked upwards of five jobs to be the newspaper’s punching bag.

Even now, though he was officially full time at the paper, he still had to keep two of his side jobs just to make ends meet. He rarely had the time to just hang out at the bar and get a beer, so he decided to treat himself a little. If only for a few minutes of sitting still.

“He’s supposed to start playing soon, if the music is going to distract you or anything,” Grantaire said as he walked back toward the taps to refill Feuilly’s beer.

Normally, Feuilly would pack it in because, though he loved live music, he wasn’t much of a concert person, even as small a concert as this would be. He didn’t do well in crowded spaces. And he didn’t concentrate well when the radio was playing, much less with an actual musician performing in front of him. However, he wasn’t in the mood to go home yet; he still needed to unwind after his interview which had been like pulling teeth, and he liked the Musain, even though it was small and more than a little run-down.

When Grantaire came back, Feuilly asked, “Is the guy any good?”

“No idea,” Grantaire shrugged. “But he’s pretty as hell and has a shitload of pedals and crap for his keyboard, so he clearly knows his stuff. Hopefully he’s not terrible, or the rest of the night is going to take forever.”

Grantaire’s definition of “pretty” ranged from an artistic viewpoint, like a person with an interesting face, to how he described his boyfriend Enjolras, who hated being called pretty even though he definitely was. Feuilly hoped it was the latter.

Not like it mattered since all he was going to do was hear the guy sing.

Slapping the bar lightly, Grantaire went back to deal with the other customers and Feuilly went back to reading his notes, facing away from the stage, and wondering how in the hell he was going to write this story when he was getting bored even thinking about it.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes later when Feuilly heard a gentle tapping on the microphone, followed almost immediately by a loud crash of chords on a keyboard. He dropped his pen with a start and turned around quickly, more by reflex than anything.

The musician had launched into a song, pounding notes onto his keyboard with a surprising force, without an introduction - whether it was because he knew the people in the crowd were fans already or because he just didn’t care, Feuilly wasn’t sure. One thing he was sure about was Grantaire had been right: He was pretty.

The man looked to be about Feuilly’s age, maybe a year or two younger, with a delicate face and huge, expressive eyes. He was dressed in tight red plaid pants and a loose-fitting sky blue tanktop, with a thin black vest draping down either side of him. He had long strawberry blonde hair that was messily tied up into a bun with a ribbon, and it looked like it wasn’t even going to make it through one song without falling loose. There was some kind of writing on his hands - lyrics to his songs or maybe a tattoo. There looked to be another tattoo that involved petals peeking out from under the tanktop on his shoulder. And he was barefoot. He was perhaps the strangest combination of characteristics Feuilly had ever seen.

And then he started to sing.

Hearing such a strong, controlled voice come out of a man who looked like a tree nymph was jarring. And beautiful. Feuilly couldn’t look away.

The way the man played his keyboard was like he was pouring his actual soul into it. He couldn’t stay still; every time he started to sit, he would bounce back up, his entire body moving to the music. He kept bumping his nose into the microphone as he sang, and he smiled each time he did it - a sweet, amused smile that seemed to say he did it often.

When the lively song ended with a jolt, the audience clapped loudly and Feuilly was surprised to notice the crowd had grown since he last looked - the floor in front of the stage was nearly full now, with stragglers still coming in. Feuilly locked eyes with Grantaire for a moment, both of them expressing surprise, and then he turned back to the singer, who was still smiling with an innocence that would suggest he wasn’t used to such enthusiastic reactions. Feuilly had a hard time believing anyone who heard this man sing would react any other way.

He began another song, still without introducing himself or even saying anything about the music. It was a softer, slower song this time, his hands working up and down the keyboard with a tender but focused skill. It was also sad, Feuilly realized as he paid attention to the lyrics - “I don’t care what sappy books or movies try to tell you, it’s never a good time to say goodbye” - and the singer’s voice broke just a little as he paused on the word “goodbye.”

Feuilly was astonished to feel tears spring to his eyes, and he blinked them away quickly. He couldn’t even put his finger onto what made him so emotional, whether it was the lyrics or the voice or how the singer looked as if he were on the verge of crying himself. This guy was good, Feuilly thought. Really good.

The song ended in a gorgeous, haunting series of notes that gave Feuilly goosebumps, and he found himself clapping before anyone else. Suddenly he felt something hit him on the side of his head and he twisted around to see a balled-up napkin laying next to him on the bar. When he looked up, he saw Grantaire grinning at him with one of his “I know what you’re thinking” smirks. Feuilly flicked him off and turned back, grabbing his pen and notebook off the counter as well. He propped one of his legs onto the seat, turned to the back of the notebook and started sketching as the singer began again.

The show went on for another half-hour or so, alternating between upbeat and sad songs - all original - showing off his piano and vocal skills as effortlessly as breathing was for other people. It was quite honestly one of the most amazing things Feuilly had ever seen and, by the end, he had covered seven pages of his notebook in sketches of the beautiful singer with phrases from his lyrics creating a background.

The musician hadn’t spoken once throughout his entire show.

After he was finished, the singer smiled shyly and actually blushed as the crowd cheered for him. His long hair was tangled down his back, the ribbon forgotten long ago. His skin was practically glowing, the sweat glistening from his sharp shoulders. He looked ethereal. Feuilly wished he could sculpt him, standing on the tiny, dingy stage, bare feet tangled in cords. Feuilly’s hands actually itched with yearning for clay to preserve the moment forever.

With a small bow, the singer waved at the crowd and then departed the stage, slipping around the corner to the makeshift waiting area where the bar set up the musical acts. Feuilly had been back there with Grantaire a few times when the bands needed help and knew it was hardly more than a couple of chairs and some bottles of water.

Feuilly turned around in the stool to face the bar again, running his hand down the side of his face in disbelief. His beer was still sitting on the counter, room temperature by now; he took a drink of it anyway. He flipped back through his sketches while people filed out. A lot of the drawings focused on the singer’s hands, those long, graceful fingers that moved so impossibly fast and precisely. And the few moments where he grabbed the microphone, holding onto it for dear life. His favorite though, which he decided he might go home and paint properly, was the singer arched like he was playing his keyboard, but instead Feuilly had drawn a hill, with the man’s fingers hovering above blades of grass. And Feuilly had continued the words written on his hands all the way up his arms - small letters wrapping around his biceps and continuing onto his back, peeking through the large arm holes of his tanktop.

He realized it was a bit creepy, drawing a stranger in such detail, so he went to flip back to his notes, but one of the guys who’d been watching the concert slid into the stool next to him and put his hand on the sketch before Feuilly had the chance.

“This is gorgeous,” he gushed, pulling the notebook closer without asking. “You should show Jehan. He’d adore it.”

Feuilly knew his face was burning up - he could feel the embarrassment soaking every inch of his skin. He wanted to snatch the notebook back and tell the dude to mind his own business. Yet, he was far too polite for that.

“Who’s Jehan?” he asked instead, fumbling with his pen.

“Seriously?” His eyes widened and he let out a laugh. “You’re only drawing the guy, and you don’t know his name?”

He had a name finally.

“I didn’t know. He didn’t talk the whole time. Jehan, huh?”

The guy nodded as he traced his fingers along the lines of Feuilly’s sketch. “Yeah, he’s a bit shy so he doesn’t like to talk on stage. He’d seriously love this though. Will you show him?”

“Oh god, no,” Feuilly went to grab it back from him, but the guy stood up, clutching the notebook to his chest.

“I’ll be right back. I promise I won’t disappear with your stuff,” he yelled as he dashed off toward backstage.

“Fuck!” Feuilly sighed as he pounded on the counter. And of course Grantaire picked that moment to come back over, smirking.

“Did that man just run off with your notebook? Is he going to steal your story or something?”

Feuilly only glared at him, wishing he could leave and forget about everything. But all of his notes from the interview were in that notebook, and he needed to write the story for tomorrow’s paper. He had no choice but to wait for him to return.

“You were drawing him, weren’t you?” Grantaire asked, nudging Feuilly’s arm. “I thought he’d be your type.”

“I don’t have a type,” Feuilly responded through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, that’s why I was basically watching you fall in love throughout his set.”

Groaning, Feuilly put his head in his hands. “He’s just a good performer. I liked his music.”

Grantaire patted Feuilly on the head gently, still laughing. “It’s OK to admit you’re attracted to him. I think pretty much everyone in here was. Here, drink your warm beer.”

Thrusting his glass under his nose, Feuilly looked up to glare again.

“Hey, have a little faith,” Grantaire continued. “I fell in love with Enjolras at a protest. And then made an idiot of myself by telling him how much I enjoyed watching him speak. And somehow that ended up with us making out behind the fucking American flag. Maybe your doodling will have a similar effect.”

Feuilly scratched his head through his short curls, almost considering it, until he realized how stupid it was. “Be serious, R.”

Throwing his arms into the air defensively, Grantaire exclaimed, “I am! I’m not trying to be an ass or anything. I’m just saying, you never know. Don’t write yourself off.”

Grantaire’s blue eyes were mischievous as if he were in on a secret. But he returned to the customers waiting for their tabs before Feuilly could say anything else. Feuilly knew his friend wasn’t being cruel. Grantaire was a lot of things, but an optimist wasn’t one of them; if he was encouraging a glass-half-full outlook, Feuilly couldn’t help but think that maybe he should try it. It’s not like it would be the end of the world to talk to someone - he did it for a living after all. And he could be downright charming sometimes, too, if he put his mind to it. At least partially charming. He had some margin of game. He just had to focus the worrying, self-doubting energy on positive thoughts.

He was still trying to boost his confidence when a hand placed his notebook and sketch back on the bar in front of him. He knew that hand.

“You have quite a way with that pen of yours,” a light, breathy voice said.

Feuilly looked over to see the singer - Jehan - standing against the bar stool closest to him. He was somehow even more attractive close-up; his large eyes were hazel, mostly kind of a grayish brown but with a few flecks of gold scattered in the irises. And the lights on the stage had washed out the fact that he was nearly covered in freckles, all up and down his arms and across his face. There were even freckles on his lips, and Feuilly knew he was staring. He needed to stop staring. He looked down and noticed Jehan was wearing big black combat boots.

“You’re wearing shoes,” he blurted out.

Jehan laughed almost melodically - Feuilly wondered if he was able to do anything without a trace of music in it. He probably sneezed in harmony.

“I just mean...that’s good. That’s good that you’re wearing shoes because the Musain is great and everything, but it’s not a very safe place to walk without proper foot protection. You could step into spilled beer or broken glass, or just the general dirtiness of it isn’t something I particularly want to think about. I’m sure they do their best to keep it clean, but there’s only so much you can do in a place like this after all --”

“What’s your name?” Jehan interrupted as he hopped up onto the bar stool with a smile.

Of course Feuilly was rambling. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. Jehan was just a person - a ridiculously beautiful and talented person, but a person nonetheless. He couldn’t get over how different his speaking voice was from his singing though. It was softer and more gentle, like a breeze weaving its way through leaves, whereas his singing had been remarkably clear and grounded. Either way, a force to be reckoned with. Feuilly found himself imagining how Jehan would sound in other situations.

He shook his head to get rid of those thoughts as quick as possible.

“I’m Feuilly, sorry,” he finally replied, extending his hand out. Instead of shaking it, Jehan took Feuilly’s hand in his and used it to point at the drawing.

Feuilly’s breath caught in his throat at the touch, and he had to make himself gasp as quickly and hopefully silently as possible.

“What’s this here?” Jehan asked, pointing Feuilly’s finger at the sketched version of himself, the spot where Feuilly had drawn tattoos creeping all up the singer’s arms and torso, coming in and out of focus in the movement of his shirt.

“Words. Tattoos,” Feuilly tried to ignore the faint pressure of Jehan’s long fingers wrapped around his wrist and concentrate on using complete sentences. “I wasn’t sure if it was a tattoo on your other hand. But I started drawing the words and then they just continued. It felt like the natural thing to do.”

Dragging his eyes from his notebook, Feuilly looked up to gauge Jehan’s reaction. He looked pleased - not creeped out or trying to figure out the quickest exit. In fact, he shifted slightly in his seat to be an inch closer to Feuilly, bending forward to look at the drawing more closely. He still hadn’t let go of Feuilly’s hand.

“This is so neat, Feuilly” - his name sounded like a content sigh coming from Jehan’s lips - “it’s like I’m playing nature. You know what would be really cool --”

Suddenly Feuilly did know and he pulled his notebook toward him, sad to force Jehan’s hand off but necessary. He uncapped his pen with his teeth and started sketching out tiny ivy vines from the toes of the drawing, around the feet, and disappearing up the calves underneath the pants.

It didn’t take long, but Jehan had sat in silence the entire time. Maybe Feuilly had finally reached the creep quota. He pulled the cap from his mouth and replaced it on the pen, looking to the side with a certain sense of dread.

Instead of looking terrified or even confused, Jehan was beaming. He couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to stare at the sketch or at Feuilly, so his eyes kept darting in between. Feuilly held his breath, not wanting to break whatever was happening.

“How-how did you know what I was going to say?” he finally asked, his cheeks pink as he focused those huge eyes on Feuilly.

Feuilly licked his lips before answering. “I didn’t. I mean, I did but I didn’t. I just thought it, too. Because you said it was like you were playing nature. And that made the connection of nature wanting to play you as well. And I imagined how it would try to reach out to you, and ivy appeared to me. Sorry if I weirded you out or anything. That definitely wasn’t my --”

Another balled-up napkin hit the back of Feuilly’s head, stopping him mid-apology. He turned around and glared at Grantaire, who started whistling and wiping down the bar while trying to suppress a grin.

“You know Grantaire?” Jehan asked quietly, directing Feuilly’s attention back.

Feuilly nodded. “Yeah, we’ve been friends a while. Do you know him? He gave me the impression he didn’t --”

“Oh, we’ve met a few times is all,” Jehan waved his hand in the air, which somehow managed to look like a dance. “I’ve known his boyfriend Enjolras for ages. We were roommates in college, and he was the one who convinced Grantaire to ask if I could play tonight.”

 _Asked to play here._ Something smelled like a setup. His natural curiosity kicking in, Feuilly was about to ask another question, but Jehan spoke first.

“Wait! Grantaire’s friend. The reporter? That’s you? I guess that would explain the notebook,” he chuckled, which sounded like what Feuilly imagined angels singing would sound like. “Enjolras was gushing about you the other night! Well, don’t you dare say that I called it gushing. But it was. About how much he admires you and how you’re the hardest working person he’d ever met, including himself.”

Feuilly was fairly sure the color of his face could rival the bright red of Jehan’s pants. He and Enjolras were the same age, but Enjolras was an up-and-coming politician, already holding positions on various boards around the city and being whispered about for a city council seat. Feuilly was a measly reporter, writing boring stories about new traffic lights. Enjolras was polite and friendly to him, of course, but he’d never expressed anything like what Jehan was describing.

“Oh no, no, I’m sure he didn’t. I’m nothing special,” Feuilly said, rotating in the stool to face out toward the room, which had emptied out since Jehan had appeared next to him. There was one couple talking in the corner and a few guys at the other end of the bar, but otherwise everyone had left - including all of Jehan’s fans. And he seemed completely oblivious of that. How could this incredibly talented performer be so unaware of how extraordinary he was? And why was he sitting in a run-down bar with someone like Feuilly? Not that Feuilly was a leper or anything, but he was hardly worth admiring.

“Enjolras also said part of what makes you so charming and unique is how unaware you are of it. And he was right. Especially with the charming part.”

Feuilly was positive he had misheard. He was being charming? He was rambling and drawing strangers in bars and refusing to accept second-hand compliments. He was pretty sure that wasn’t charming. Yet, Jehan had moved closer so that their knees were just shy of touching - his legs in those impossibly tight plaid pants within grasp. And he still had one hand on Feuilly’s drawing, like he was afraid if he let go, it would disappear as a figment of his imagination.

Feuilly was completely out of his depth, and he knew he needed to say something, but hell if he knew what that was. It was taking all of his self-control to not spontaneously combust.

Thankfully Jehan solved the problem.

"We still have a newspaper here?" he asked, lightly trailing his finger along the edge of the bar. "I thought they all closed up except big ones like The Times and The Washington Post."

Feuilly was about to launch into his theory about the current state of journalism in the country, but the smile on Jehan's freckled lips was playful, and Feuilly realized he was flirting. He was really flirting. Had they been flirting the whole time? Feuilly felt adrift, confused, a little reckless - and he loved it.

"Thankfully we do or else I’d be out of a job,” he replied in a low voice, unconsciously forcing Jehan to bend his head closer.

"Is part of your job talking to strangers at bars?" Jehan grinned at Feuilly as he fiddled with his pen.

"Actually yes, approaching strangers is a big part of being a reporter. Getting the big scoops, those in-depth interviews.”

Jehan looked down, his long hair falling over his shoulders, obscuring his face. For a moment Feuilly was afraid he’d said something stupid and had offended him. Yet, a second later, Jehan raised his head and his eyes were practically sparkling in the dim light of the bar.

“Would you like to interview me?”

Feuilly had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his entire life and, for once, he shut his brain off and simply acted. He closed the gap between them and brought his lips to Jehan’s gently, resting his hand on Jehan’s knee which was trembling slightly. At the quiver, Feuilly was afraid he’d made a mistake and went to pull back, ashamed at himself for misreading things so spectacularly. Yet, Jehan put a stop to that instantly. He wrapped his thin arms around Feuilly’s neck, nearly pulling him off the stool, and kissed back with such ferocity that Feuilly felt like he got the wind knocked out of him.

He should have known Jehan would be an excellent kisser; someone who sings with as much passion as he does, who knows how to move his mouth and body so in time with music, would clearly be able to kiss like he’d taken a master’s class on the subject. Feuilly reached up to tangle his fingers into Jehan’s long hair, clutching the sides of Jehan’s face as he deepened the kiss.

Jehan held Feuilly’s bottom lip in his teeth, sucking gently and then not so gently, and Feuilly was concerned that his lungs were going to collapse from forgetting to breathe. Jehan had moved his hands to rest on Feuilly’s thighs, and Feuilly could feel his heartbeat through Jehan’s warm palms. No other sounds mattered except the melodic gasps Jehan was practically singing into his mouth.

They needed to relocate. The Musain was not the place for this for so, so many reasons. Breaking the kiss for a moment, Feuilly awkwardly stood up, navigating Jehan to his feet as well. Jehan’s eyes had changed color to a kind of dark green, and Feuilly pulled him close, aligning their chests so he could feel Jehan’s heart beating just as frantically as his.

Feuilly had never done this before, and he didn’t know how to proceed. Was this really happening? Was this when he was supposed to coyly suggest that they go to his place? What if it wasn’t? Or what if everything was moving too fast?

Jehan was looking at him intently, as if he were trying to read his mind. He had the same glow that he had on stage earlier; it was like light was actually radiating from him. Feuilly felt like he was on fire and yet frozen to the spot. And then he realized he might just have fallen in love tonight, and there was nothing he wanted more than to be in this beautiful soul’s presence - quite possibly forever.

“Are you OK?” Jehan finally asked, his voice barely a whisper. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against Feuilly’s. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shaky, and Feuilly kissed his nose as a reply because words were not forming.

Jehan’s sly hands made their way around Feuilly’s torso, fingers dancing along his ribs.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” Jehan asked.

Feuilly almost laughed, but instead he just grinned and nodded with what he hoped was measured enthusiasm. He dropped some cash on the bar for his beers and slid his notebook into his back pocket, careful to close it delicately so as to not damage his sketches that had been the catalyst for all of this. He guessed he owed that dude a drink if he ever saw him again.

Taking Feuilly by the hand, Jehan pulled him into motion, stumbling down the length of the bar. As they passed, Grantaire was leaning on the counter, smirking like he had planned the whole thing. For all Feuilly knew, he had.

“I should tell you that I don’t cover entertainment, so I would have no professional reason for interviewing you,” Feuilly whispered into Jehan’s ear as they clumsily made their way toward the exit, stepping on each other’s feet like two love struck teenagers.

In response, Jehan slid his hand down and grabbed Feuilly’s ass. He was momentarily shocked and so turned on that his brain felt like it was short circuiting. It was all he could do to just stare at the door and try to force his legs to cooperate in getting there. Jehan, facing the opposite direction, shouted back to Grantaire, who was probably still standing at the bar with that smug look of accomplishment.

“R, you’re going to Enjolras’ after you close up, right? Can you take my keyboard there? I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Thanks for the gig!”

Grantaire must have made some gesture in the affirmative because Jehan lunged forward to capture Feuilly’s lips again, curling his hands around Feuilly’s hips and pulling him forward.

“No interview, huh? You can make it up to me by replicating that drawing you did of me. In real life.”

They finally slipped outside, the sidewalk blissfully empty of any pedestrians. Feuilly let his fingers ghost from Jehan’s hands all the way up his arms, pressing his body against the outside of the bar. He could see the tattoo closely now, the intricate tiny script that must have taken a long time to ink the skin. Feuilly couldn’t help but admire that, considering how painful it must have been.

“You want lyrics on you? Here? And here?”

He kissed Jehan’s hand and then the inside of his elbow and then his shoulder, his pale skin shining in the moonlight. Jehan bit his lip and nodded, intertwining their hands as he tugged Feuilly along so their sides were flush as they walked. Feuilly trusted Jehan implicitly to lead the way; he’d follow the stunning singer off a cliff at this point.

Using his free hand, Jehan draped his hair onto his other shoulder, and Feuilly felt that itch to sculpt him again. To mold the clay in the gentle angles of Jehan’s face and punctuate it with each tiny freckle. To carve the words on his skin, hollow out the concaves, and round out the curves. He wanted - _he needed_ \- to spend hours perfecting the imperfections of those deep eyes.

And then he realized he had said all of that out loud.

Jehan hummed contentedly - the melody of one of his songs he’d played earlier, the first one, that had hypnotized Feuilly - as he nuzzled Feuilly’s neck and then settled his head on his shoulder. “And you tried to say you weren’t charming.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- The dude who facilitates Jehan and Feuilly's meeting is definitely supposed to be Courfeyrac, but I didn't want to spell it out because then I'd be tempted to give him a larger role lol  
> \- This is also the fastest I've been inspired and written a fic (less than a week!), so I apologize for any errors or mistakes.  
> \- This started as a graphic I made on Tumblr for Feuilly Week, and then a short drabble, and then exploded into this. (You can find me [here on Tumblr](http://feuillyed.tumblr.com/) if you want to =)


End file.
